The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

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Sitting is not my forte,
unless in hand I have six kings
of fermented grain in a graveyard.
This is the only way I can sit still,
even if it is self-defeating.
As these kings are slowly
dethroned, I appear the Jester
and regale the fireflies with my lighter.

In the graveyard, land of vast green seas
and floating pixies, I bury the kings by moonlight.
Whether they protest I cannot hear for the grave of the fireflies
is blinding and all consuming. I sit because I am exhausted having
buried too many kings.
Focus comes when my eyes close
and you pause, reflect, and become knowing
of all my troubles.
You laughed because the other laughed,
the short one with the frilly hair.
She is not my fairy -only you are,
on the long drive from the graveyard
where nothing awaits at home.

We pass out before the sun sets
not having touched or loved
in a blue moon - but we are content
to watch the fireflies and remember
that the future holds glory
and a new ways of beings
as we build and integrate each other.
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